i'm rarely alone, and unless i'm at a matinee, i generally prefer it that way. after about 4 hours of living inside my head, i'm ready to have someone else contribute to the conversation. plus, i am afraid of things like clowns and robbers and coyotes. i would probably be pretty easy to kill.
this is why i am disheartened to learn that my hubby will be away on business for a week. on my birthday!
turning a year older when you're alone is zero fun. luckily, i have a scheduled visit from jessm on the 16th, but i am currently seeking apllicaions to fill out the rest of the week. is anybody bored? does anybody want to come to Ohio, or want me to drive out to them? please?! i can't stay too long -- i've got the chickens to take care of -- but i could use a little help from my friends.
(mom? sis? who's up for a Mumbo Jumbo Tropicana Bahama Mama at Red Lobster?)
oh -- and thanks for the outpouring of support for your murderous teet. i really appreciated it.
Lil'Peckers: two things have died since we last spoke.
[caption id="attachment_999" align="alignleft" width="240" caption="in the name of the father, the son and the holy spirit"][/caption]
one of those things is my littlest hen. the other thing is the raccoon that ate her. RIP to everyone involved.
a round of tears, bullets and several life lessons later, I'm here to report that I -- yes, your little teet -- singlehandedly purchased a firearm, trapped a raccoon, shot, killed and disposed of its carcass.
there are two ways to tell this story. there's the lighthearted city-girl-kills-first-coon sort of version, where theteet gets spittin' mad and sets out for blood, but i think i might have to save that version for a few months down the road when the novelty has worn off. for now, the tale is mostly traumatizing.
you see, as complicated as our circulatory systems might be, we are very, very mortal. did you know that you are a few pints of blood, one sharp metal object or blunt trauma away from leaving this earth? when people are sick, or when we're in a situation where we must acknowledge this truth in any way, things become uncomfortable. despite the fact that it's the only thing we have in common, death is something we rarely talk about. we change the subject.
this same don't-ask-don't-tell policy has infiltrated our food/consumer supply and our relationship with god and plant and beast. i bet today you've already eaten one or two different animals or used their skin or eyes or teeth or whatever they put in shampoo and stuff. in other words, i can't believe it took me 25 years to do the dirty deed myself for once.
thursday night, a raccoon dug a small moat around our chicken coop until he found a penetrable spot by the wheel. he snuck in, grabbed the tiny chicken i had nursed back to 'health' (she was still the littlest one. we called her 'Gimp') and he ate it, presumably while the other chickens were running around wild-scared inside the coop. it looked like a feather bomb had gone off, if such a thing exists.
seth had to leave for business, so it was up to me to protect the flock.
i decided that trapping and then shooting the critter would be the best move. (i know-what?!) there were other options -- i could string moth balls around the cage, sprinkle coyote urine, or try other various things to deter the raccoon with no guaranteed success. 1-8-7 was the only fullproof option. i made the decision that the raccoon had breached contract and must die. i didn't want to loose one chicken per night testing out other methods.
plus, i knew that even if i managed to a) buy a gun that day, and b) stake out a decent spot to shoot the critter, c) was able to stay up all night, and d) was lucky enough to SEE a raccoon, i would not be lucky enough to shoot and kill it. i would probably blow off a paw or shoot it in the gut or, most likely, miss it all together.
so after work friday i bought a live trap at TSC and i called my father, who served up a harsh reality check:
"Lyndsey, you're going to have a pissed off raccoon in that trap when you wake up tomorrow morning."
Father, a professional raccoon sniper himself, warned me that when approached, the raccoon would sound and act like a grizzly bear. he would hiss, growl and snarl. he would dig up all the grass around the trap. if i reached for the handle, he would bite, scratch, claw and "scare the shit" out of me. if i opened the cage, he would come after me. there would be no setting the animal free. no turning back.
[caption id="attachment_917" align="alignright" width="300" caption="A chicken avenged: Gimp (at right) during happier times."][/caption]
so i set the trap that night and secured the chickens in the garage (that's another story all together -- it involves a ladder and a flock of chickens roosting in the top of an apple tree. oh, and the organizational director of "My Ohio Now.") and i went to bed praying that the raccoon would be too smart to be tempted by the jam sandwich i had left for him in the trap.
at 7 a.m. the next morning, i had a raccoon in the trap. the problem was, he wasn't pissed off. the raccoon was as docile and polite as you could imagine. he sat like a cute little housecat, digging at the bottom of the cage. the only sound he made was a short, terrified breathing noise as he looked up and saw me standing there. the shit was not scared out of me. i did not fear for my life. in fact, it almost seemed like i had just lured a defenseless animal with blueberry jam and trapped him in a cage. i went into my bedroom and cried for five minutes, and then i set out for the store.
Wal-Mart doesn't sell guns until 9 a.m., FYI. even then, the friendly gun salesmen were not taking me very seriously. the night before, as i was browsing their selection, they had told me that i didn't know enough about guns to buy one, that i needed training first and that i should come back later -- with my husband -- all but refusing to sell me a firearm.
this morning, there were more serious circumstances, and (thank god) a different salesman. he told me the story of the time he shot a raccoon between the eyes, only to have it stand up on two legs and charge after him like a bear. perfect.
after a background check, a few manager's signatures and an escort back to the Honda, i made my purchase -- a lady-sized .22 rifle -- and was on my way. for the first time in my life, i had the thought: "which is more dangerous: the gun in my back seat, or the car i'm driving it home in?"
45 minutes of target practice later, i had no other acceptable excuse to delay. i had read the user manual 12 times, and all the while, the raccoon had been scared to death in his little cage. the longer i waited, the further i would prolong his suffering. i walked over to the raccoon and i said a prayer out loud to Jesus: "please do not let this raccoon suffer, and more importantly, please do not let me suffer as a result of killing this raccoon."
i pointed the rifle at the raccoon. he looked at me, and looked away quickly. i told him not to move, and he looked back with his big brown eyes and his fuzzy little face and i pulled the trigger. for the next 5-5,555 seconds the the raccoon twitched wildly inside the cage. i saw that i had hit him between the eyes, but just to be sure i didn't eff it up, i shot him 2 more times in the head. later, people would tell me that this was unnecessary.
i immediately begun shouting the lord's name -- i'm not sure if it was in vain, or if i was really crying for his assistance -- until the raccoon stopped moving. it was finished. i cried for five more minutes, and put the dead raccoon out in the field, where the buzzards circle him now.
whether you think i'm a wuss or a monster, the truth is, i'm a better person for have killing this varmint. i can't really explain it right now, but there is some lesson in death, suffering, protecting the flock, being on top of the food chain, etc. etc. i passed about a dozen dead raccoon carcasses on the side of the road today, but it doesn't diminish this feeling. that only happens with time.
Editor’s Note: This is Part Eight of our ongoing series about theteet’s foray into the world of the chicken farmer. Descriptions are graphic.
Seth and I were sitting on the picnic table last evening, when one of the chickens jumped up and pooped beside us.
Please stay with me because this story gets even better.
The poo was purple and lumpy, and Seth said "I wish I could eat so many berries that I poop jam."
Then he bought 5 quarts of blueberries and ate them in one sitting. He's out on the picnic table now.
Ok. Now I'm starting to get a bit jealous.
[caption id="attachment_858" align="alignleft" width="169" caption="commented here: Megan Pringle"][/caption]
Search Terms ending 2008-07-24 (Summarized)
Search
Views
megan pringle
104
the teet
95
monique ming laven
63
i hate my cousin
56
lyndsey teter
42
lyndsey teter blog
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bible jokes
30
[caption id="attachment_851" align="alignright" width="240" caption="Gutless Goot."][/caption]
In other Celebrities Who Have Contacted Me Personally News, Meredith Somers shared this with me last week, and I am still shocked and terrified by it. The same man who emailed me long ago is dropping F-Bombs, carousing women and dressing Hollywood Cool. His body is his instrument?! Tears.
Look Out, New York Ladies: The Goot Is Loose!
Steve Guttenberg, bumped from L.A. by Tom Cruise, is in town looking for Ms. Right: 'I am a seducer, I'm a salesman'
By Spencer Morgan
July 15, 2008
“I walked in and the maitre d’ made a big deal for me,” said Mr. Guttenberg. The Goot—as he’s known to his friends—appreciated the show. To hear him tell it, eating in public in Los Angeles is a dangerous business for an actor whose last box office hit was Three Men and a Baby in 1987.
“All of a sudden, the maitre d’ says, ‘Get out of the way!’” said Mr. Guttenberg. “And they literally threw me to the side and Tom Cruise came in. And he sat Tom Cruise and said, ‘I’m so sorry, but you know, Tom Cruise.’ And I’m like, ‘Holy fuck.’”
So after three decades in L.A., he bought a place on the Upper West Side. “I came to New York to find a better life,” he said. Uprooting took some time. The 15-year-old golden retriever he loved dearly was old and sick; the golden died a month ago. So two weeks ago, the wavy-haired, Brooklyn-born 49-year-old actor, who describes his career as a “32-year-overnight success,” finally made it back to New York City.
“In L.A., I think about what I don’t have,” he told me. “In New York, I think about what I do have. And I’m really tired of comparing myself to Tom Cruise.”
We met on a recent afternoon at the Players Club, which faces Gramercy Park and was founded in 1888 by the great stage actor Edwin Booth and Mark Twain, among many others. The walls are lined with paintings of great actors, many of them long passed, but all familiar to the man who memorably embodied the role of Newton Crosby, the cheery scientist who created and learned to love a military robot in Short Circuit.
Mr. Guttenberg was wearing a starched white V-neck, a pair of black aviators hooked at the V, distressed jeans ripped at the knee, and some Wallabees. Textbook Hollywood-casual.
“I turned around, and took a good look at myself, and I didn’t like what I saw,” he continued. “I started to lose some of my values. Hollywood is a place where people spend more than they make to impress people they don’t like, who don’t care anyway. And I have a certain weakness of character, and I’m at this point in my life, I’m not strong enough to live there.
“I pop out of bed at 6:30. And I say my prayers, and every day have a little hot water and lemon, that’s my start,” he said. “And I go take a run in Central Park.” The other day, he met an attractive female jogger. Got her digits. They went on a date. Didn’t work out, but last Thursday he took a blond Cornell grad to the Water Club.
“Nothing sexier than a smart woman,” he said. “The Goot is on the loose.”
After his morning jog, he hits the gym in his building; he lives in the Reebok Condo on Columbus Avenue and 67th Street. “I’ve tried to stay fit, you know, because it’s my instrument, this is my violin,” he said, gesturing over his body. “I play the violin. So I want to keep it tuned up …. So I work out there during the day, and then I write.”
Writing takes up a good three hours. He’s working on a play, two scripts and a book about his first 10 years in Hollywood. Tentative title: Diary of a Seducer. Then he’ll cook himself a light lunch. He goes to MoMA a few times a week. He watches a movie every day—yesterday he saw Hancock, before that it was Wall-E, the day before it was M*A*S*H. He tries to read part of a great play every day; right now it’s House of Blue Leaves, by John Guare.
At the Players Club, he showed me Mr. Booth’s room, which has been preserved as it was when he died. “It makes you think, right?” he said. “Nothing really matters. Like Brad Pitt, Angelina Jolie, who cares? … You know, it’s like time, the great equalizer.”
On the balcony overlooking Gramercy Park, he talked about his career. You might have seen him on Dancing With the Stars. What you probably don’t know is that in the past two years, the Goot has done eight indie films.
“I go in spurts,” he said. Upcoming Goot pictures include Mojave Phone Booth, about a phone booth in the middle of the desert, and Major Movie Star, in which he plays Jessica Simpson’s dad.
“I guess that’s just an artist’s life,” he said, gazing out over the park. His eyes are almost yellow; his smile is equally dramatic and bright; he looks like an ecstatic child. “And sometimes it’ll appear that an artist isn’t doing anything, but he’s doing his own work, or he’s doing work that you don’t see. And I feel I’m very, very fortunate to have the career I have. I’ve done some popular work, and I’ve done some artistic work that hasn’t been as popular but has a lot of merit.”
For example, there was P.S. Your Cat Is Dead!, which he adapted from the play by James Kirkwood and directed. “I think an actor can only do what he’s offered.So if you don’t get offered the stuff that you want, you don’t work. You know, so many people would say to me, ‘You haven’t worked in this long,’ like it’s a crime. You know, I’m an artist. I paint when I want to paint.
“I remember being in the Four Seasons Hotel having lunch and John Travolta came in before Pulp Fiction,” he continued. “And I remember people who knew him were turning away, because they didn’t want anyone to see him talking to them ’cause he wasn’t hot.”
The Goot may feel that he never really got his big break. But who can forget Cadet Carey Mahoney in the Police Academy movies, 1 through 4. Or him stealing the movie from Kevin Bacon in Barry Levinson’s 1982 picture, Diner? He also played the shirtless captain of the boat that aliens use to rescue their friends in Cocoon, a role he reprised in the sequel. And Three Men and a Baby was the biggest film of 1987!Three Men and a Little Lady, not so much.
You’d think that those successes and the various others would be enough for a man to hang his hat on. Not the Goot. He’s a worrier. Next Page >
[caption id="attachment_999" align="alignleft" width="240" caption="dead to me"][/caption]
Raccoons are the worst creatures on the planet.
Last night one of these obnoxious beasts pulled down EVERY STOCK OF CORN THAT WE have grown and ate them.
Losing garden produce to critters is irritating, but sort of expected. The bigger offense came when we discovered a huge hole had been dug at the corner of our chicken coop.
raccoon. listen up.
if you so much as even think of putting one tiny claw into one of my hens, i will go vigilante on your ass.
there are no animal courts in Guantanamo Bangs, my brother. i will take the day off work, i will hunt you down, yank your ass out of whatever den you're sleeping in, and i will rip off your little paws one at a time until you'd wish you were dead. but i'll leave you alive so you don't miss me trapping and killing your dearest friends and loved ones.
this is what shall come to pass if you eat my chickens.
do not seek the treasure.
ps - now, this guy knows how to blog about raccoon problems. we haven't tried christian rock or Rush Limbaugh yet ...
Special "driving by an Amish church service on a pleasant Sunday afternoon" edition.
L-Jo: oh ... My ...
Steter: look at that
L-Jo: I have never seen anything like that before! Look at all the buggies!
Steter: and they're waving now...
L-Jo: benches! Lined up ... How many do you think were crammed into that barn? />
Steter:
L-jo:
Steter: they do something quaint like that and then they get mad if you take their picture.
L-Jo: I know! And the haircuts. Did you see the haircuts?
Steter: "Hi, we're Amish. We're going to line our children up according to height and have them push handmade wooden wheelbarrows down the road -- but don' take our picture!"
L-Jo: Bastards.
Today we fired up the pressure canner for its inaugural run. What a wonderful machine, a "pressure canner." A lovely gift, mother. The whole thing seems very dangerous, what with the plethora of orange warning labels, the propane tank, the steam weight hissing violently around in a circle.
There is a gauge on the thing that reads all the way to "CAUTION." I'm not sure why you'd get there in the first place, but I have no interest trying. It's like a car that registers to 400 mph. Why on earth would that happen?
We canned green and yellow beans, and we pickled some of our green tomatoes for salads. It was a meager attempt at a preemptive strike.
We have something like 25 tomato plants, and unlike last year when i let them grow wild, all have been properly suckered and trimmed for the duration. That means we have something like 2,365 enormous green tomatoes on the vine -- all weighing the plants down, almost snapping the tomato stakes (BAMBOO IS NO GOOD!)
I fear that one day we will wake up to see them all red at once.
If you've ever grown a large quantity of tomatoes, you know that once they start, they don't stop, and that you're canning constantly until the fall. we are just using our last jars from last year, so this is perfect timing. But the green tomato salsa stuff barely put a dent in the crop.
We also are making something called Blueberry Butter, which is as good as it sounds.
The problem is that I want to make everything in this book:
[caption id="attachment_993" align="alignnone" width="300" caption="another good gift"][/caption]
4 recipes down, 396 to go.
This Barbara Kingsolver sure knows a lot about gardening. She planted 200 potatoes to last her family the winter. And how does one make "seedling potatoes" ?
There is much yet to learn. But soon, we'll never need to go to the grocery store again.
my google reader is on the fritz. this is traumatizing in many ways.
In the meantime, here's something that's long overdue:
He said/She said:Special DIRRRTY Edition.
set-up: so we're getting ready to launch our new website at work (henceforth known as Project 1994) and you'll be happy to know that our first official executive decision involved an emailed list of predetermined swear words. we had to decide that we would not allow in our comments section of our online newspaper. there are several hes and shes involved in this conversation.
she said: you can't say boobies? that's ridiculous.
she said. this is an alternative weekly.
he said:
she said: what's smegma?
he said: i'm not telling.
he said: well, it's the stuff you find ... under the folds
he said: (scrolling feverishly to the top of the email) did dick cheese make it?
he said: hmm. you can say dick cheese.
she said:
she said: but you can't say lesbot?
[wp_caption id="attachment_974" align="alignright" width="157" caption="lambs: jesus was rarely seen without one."][/wp_caption]
WARNING: RELIGION AHEAD. MAY CONTAIN SPIRITUAL REFERENCES. PROCEED WITH CAUTION. YOU MAY BE CONVERTED.
my life is an open book. there are parts in it.
when i drift too far from the shore, as they say in bluegrass gospels, there is always one thing guaranteed to bring me back: Rock Bottom.
i always come back to jesus when i am either wearing some sort of neck brace in an ambulance, passed out on a dirty bathroom floor in a frat house or puking on a member of law enforcement. other times i've just committed some terrible, unmentionable criminal or moral offense.
i call them my 'this isn't working,' moments, when life choices seem -- unwise. it is usually here when i vow to abandon all harmful behavior, and like any good dog set on not returning to his vomit, i crack open my bible and i set out anew. for an average of about three months.
a wretched man that i am. who will deliver me?
but in the wake of shitstorm 2007, the clouds have given way to blue skies and all is peaceful and happy in family, job, food, health, finances.
i have never crawled back to jesus in this state of mind.
it will be interesting to see what happens next, no? place your bets.
Editor’s Note: This is Part Seven of our ongoing series about theteet’s foray into the world of the chicken farmer. Descriptions are graphic.
Special "Just when you thought, 'what could she possibly have left to say about chickens!?'" Lil' Peckers Edition.
So, this morning I walked outside before work to spend some time with the flock in the garden when suddenly ... a rooster crowed, which is pretty impressive for a hen. especially with those large waddly things hanging from her face.
oh, wait.
[wp_caption id="attachment_971" align="alignright" width="210" caption="whoever sexed this thing is totally fired."][/wp_caption]
that's totally a dude.
my brother-in-law had a similar incident with a rooster they named Austin Powers (i.e., 'she's a man, baby, yeah.') In that spirit, and only bill melville will understand this reference, I am going to name our impostor Mary Ann--maybe just Krauss for short.
the chicken does have very large hands.
MAK probably could have gotten away with it if he hadn't opened his big mouth.
and now i'm off to research the reproductive cycles of poultry. MAK's sperm could be devastating for the future of our omelets.
in every girl's life when her garden is weeded, her house and garage are as clean as they can be and she no longer has to cover any night meetings.
is that ... am i ... it's a strange, foriegn sensation. it's like when you become aware of time passing slowly and then there's nothing to fill it. it's like a hanging in the air. i think the city kids call it 'waiting for activities to happen,' or 'looking for activities to fill the time.' yes. that must be the name of this feeling i am feeling.
let's get to the point: seth and i just had the Best Weekend Ever.
[wp_caption id="attachment_978" align="alignright" width="300" caption="This child kills me."][/wp_caption]
we had the whole fam-damily up for a cook/camp out, where much quality time was accrued. johnsons, although outnumbered by teters, managed to mix perfectly with the crowd--when they hadn't snuck away in the woods to smoke or pop painkillers, that is. :) these are my people whom i love. we will cook the tastiest side dishes you can imagine. we will dominate you at cornhole.
we got jacob's new white shoes caked with mud. i hope he's allowed to come back to Bangs. there was a memorable moment after the fireworks when he fell asleep as i carried him 100 feet back to the car. i was impressed by his zero-to-60-and-back-again capabilities. it must be nice to be 3.
owie won the heart of my father simply by appearingcomfortable on the farm with the chickens. he was totally in his element. he has a john deer, after all.
and melia, who is not yet 1, signed 'more! more!' during the mount vernon fireworks. she ain't no scared sucker-baby.
[wp_caption id="attachment_979" align="alignleft" width="300" caption="I know the feeling."][/wp_caption]
Christy pretty much kept tabs on my fourth neice or nephew. this family is growing out of control.
Sunday, we had our pastor and his wife over for an evening picnic.
i don't want to spoil it, but i think they could be the one.
he is, and i think i have this right: a new york italian raised roman catholic with the occasional yiddish phrase every now and then. early 50s. accordion rocker. and his better half? she's a little firecracker. a pistola. and totally rad in my mind. photojournalist/documentaries/music/teacher/student/the works. do you think they'll call us for a second date? (!)
and this might break your WHOLES-O-MEters: we hope to hit up a b-i-b-l-e study this week.
wish me luck.*
*EDIT: please click on this link for an illustration of half the P-Do-Las. There is no better picture ever taken.
Don't believe me? Just ask MEGAN PRINGLE!!!!!!!!!111!!1!!!111!!one!!!!!!!
[wp_caption id="attachment_858" align="alignright" width="169" caption="'Very entertained' by theteet: Megan Pringle"][/wp_caption]
oh my god. oh my god. oh my god.
MEGAN PRINGLE really did comment on my blog this time.
it's not my cousin, even.
every sentence must be a new paragraph.
today is a day that will live in infamy -- or famy, rather. today is a famous day.
For those intrigued but too lazy to click:
New comment on your post #856 "oh my god oh my god oh my god"
Author : Megan Pringle (IP:st.net)
Comment:
Well now I feel compelled to comment on your blog!
My brother told me about this website.
All I can say is wow...reading it has left be amused, a little confused, but most of all very entertained. It's adorable and hilarious.
I'm now in a new city with a new four dollar coffee.
I enjoyed chatting with you at Starbucks!
Take care!
PS - Two lattes (one for me, one for my fella)
Just to update regular readers of theteet, a search for megan pringle (still) brings 1-2 unique visitors to my site every day. At first, I accidentally mentioned her in a blog post that drew rave reviews, and then i used her fame to shamelessly increase my site traffic. But somewhere along the line, it morphed into a paralyzing fascination -- just like in the movies! But my weird obsession can't top whomever does 1-2 searches for her every day and always -- disappointingly, i'm sure -- ends up here.
Apparently Megan has a new city and a new (ggrrrrrr) Starbucks. Oh, and a brother!!! I tried to Google her name to find out more, but it was like chasing my own tail.
Speaking of sexy referrers, watch out Megan Pringle -- Monique Ming Laven is still a distant third, but she could be a dark horse:
Search Terms for all days ending 2008-07-04 (Summarized)
this, my friends, is the cold, hard, deep-frozen reality of the omnivore.
if you've ever carved into a rotisserie chicken or chomped down on a chicken salad sandwich, don't act like you don't have blood on your hands. plus, these Teter-range® chickens, as jaydubs, well, dubbed them, lived a guaranteed happy life, as short as it may have been. i think they were hormone-free, unless you count the antibiotics that came in their baby chick feed ... ? anyway, we didn't inject any green slime into them like they show on the PETA videos.
if Seth believed in blogging, this entry would be much more entertaining. this morning he took the birds to a local Amish family who killed and dressed them for us while he waited. apparently one of the seven or so children was strangely intoxicated by his own chicken-erasing powers.
there are eight egg-layers left to live another day. (those birds, in my opinion, are much, much cooler and pleasant to have around. the others seemed to rarely take their heads out of the feeding trough. crazy Cornish-rocks.) eggs are expected by august, maybe?
in sum, it's much harder to let someone kill your pig than your chickens. unless my heart has hardened. also, in one word: Rotisserie.
annnnnnnnd Dinner.
Editor’s Note: This is Part Five of our ongoing series about theteet’s foray into the world of the chicken farmer. Descriptions are graphic.
Maybel and the chickens have become fast friends.
Name: Seth
Alias: Teth Seter or Steter.
In Brief: The Steter in his natural habitat. Married to theteet.blogspot.com since August 2004. Often the victim of serious hyperbole. Handy.
Hates: Noise, Dominion Homes, above-the-nipple touching, when people get 'handsy.'
Loves: pies (of any kind), dirt, smoking a pipe after eating pie. also, cows.
Name: Maybel
Alias: The Pig or Boobles.
In Brief: Kentucky-born English Bulldog since February 2006.
Hates: Watermelon. All other kinds of melon. The sound of a new trash bag being opened and sitting in the back seat.
Loves: Treats, walks, Charlie, 'humping it out' and barfing.
Name: Amanda
Alias: The Sister.
In Brief: theteet's younger (but larger) sister. Survived a brain bleed in February 2007.
Hates: minor inconveniences that make her blurt out uncontrollably, brain bleeds.
Loves: UFC, cornhole, texting, fast food and her dog Charlie.
Name: mom and dad.
Alias: the 'rents.
In Brief: Ashland natives and frequent visitors. They taught me how to swear.
Hates: hospitals.
Loves: squirrels and lattes.
Name: Mae
Alias: Klingler or Maddog.
In Brief: Cincinnati resident and former college/Old Towne East roommate. Once wrote a song that made theteet cry.
Hates: Hate.
Loves: Jesus, family, puns, guitars and gardening.
Name: Colleen
Alias: Crankin and Rankin.
In Brief: Akron resident and former college roomie. Arguably more handy than Seth. Nice bosom for hugging.
Hates: all drivers.
Loves: beer, coffee, cigarettes and boys we all find strange.
Name: Talya
Alias: Strader and Sweet T.
In Brief: Chicago resident and former college roomie. served brief stint at theteet's 'accountability partner.' collects monthly fee for keeping quiet.
Hates: people who do not comment on her blog.
Loves: social justice, eggs, her boyfriend monsterbeard and the occupation of barista.
Name: Chris
Alias: Christopher, Monsterbeard and Nadine.
In Brief: Chicago resident and college buddy. Maker of 'We once waited up in the dark with a gun,' and other misadventures.
Hates: people who are looking the other way.
Loves: history, film, his girlfriend Strader and acronyms.
Name: pdawg.
Alias: none needed.
In Brief: Former co-worker who is willing to eat waffles with theteet at 4 in the morning regardless of level of snow emergency.
Hates: anyone under the age of 35.
Loves: Hostess pies, old man rants and golf.
Name: Linsly.
Alias: MERLIN, lin or newbie.
In Brief: Former co-worker who lived with us for a week. I can tell this kid anything. He's like a brother.
Hates: sexual predators.
Loves: zombies, guns, porch chats and movie quotes.
Name: jaydubs.
Alias: jwray and 10bagspacking.
In Brief: Co-worker who taught me everything I know about the world.
Hates: mean jokes, mushrooms, clipping fingernails in the office.
Loves: crafts, her gay-together but also betrothed person Kyle, Columbus Bride Magazine, veggie-friendliness and basil.
Name: jessica.
Alias: jessm.
In Brief: College buddy with the amazing handshake. I believe she might be back from Alaska and living in Hudson now.
Hates: poverty.
Loves: Jesus, jazz, geography and hilarious t-shirts.
Name: brittiny.
Alias: Brit-Brat, experimental dater or The Dunlap.
In Brief: Former co-worker (notice a theme here?) who started with me at SNP on the same day. Former Sorority president taught me the ropes of being a lady. her wisdom did not take.
Hates: visible pany line.
Loves: cocktails, shoes, 'the blue box' and her boyfriend the Lizard.
Name: garth and jen.
Alias: not safe around house plants and the real spider-man and/or HSnothingswronghere.
In Brief: Co-worker couple who proved themselves fun at work and on the farm. Periodically forced to kiss in gas station parking lots.
Hates: local broadcast news reporters.
Loves: zombies, movie quotes, Indianapolis and lin rice.
Name: Angie.
Alias: captain cool.
In Brief: Former co-worker who stole my heart. She is the only thing I've ever lost to the Youngstown Vindicator.
Hates: joe and misogynists.
Loves: celebrity gossip, hilarious captions, biking/hiking, her boyfriend Jef, her mom and Columbus.
Name: Melville.
Alias: welcome to earf or bad town.
In Brief: Former co-worker who let me inherit his seat at SNP. For a while, he was the only one who would talk Reynoldsburg politics with me.
Hates: fleas, eminent domain and people who flip the bird.
Loves: his evil cat, running, opinions, beer and Tom Waits.
Name: The Gerish.
Alias: The Gerish.
In Brief: Co-worker and rare, elusive creature. If you're lucky, you'll see a tousle of black hair breeze by over the cubicle wall.
Hates: Things that aren't crackers.
Loves: crackers.
Name: Dennis.
Alias: secret reading.
In Brief: Co-worker and rare, elusive creature. If you're lucky, he'll walk over and talk to you. But he probably won't. Once took my sister-in-law to Homecoming.
Hates: The damn kids who walk in his yard.
Loves: Corgis, Cedar Point and Rachael. But not the one you're thinking of.
Writing takes up a good three hours. He’s working on a play, two scripts and a book about his first 10 years in Hollywood. Tentative title: Diary of a Seducer. Then he’ll cook himself a light lunch. He goes to MoMA a few times a week. He watches a movie every day—yesterday he saw Hancock, before that it was Wall-E, the day before it was M*A*S*H. He tries to read part of a great play every day; right now it’s House of Blue Leaves, by John Guare.
these birds died trying to steal copper wire.
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